


All the Mirrored Ways

by MiraMira



Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Character Study, F/M, Female Protagonist, Gen, Gift Fic, Innuendo, Mind Games, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Female Character, Present Tense, Sacrifice, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever, wherever, <i>who</i>ever she is, there is one thing Shayera Hol can trust in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Mirrored Ways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yhlee (etothey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etothey/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, yhlee, and thank you for giving me the chance to write this! Dystopias and fast-paced adventure are admittedly not my strengths, but alternate universes and solving problems by thwacking them? Those I embrace gleefully. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Contains references to the Justice League/Justice League Unlimited episodes "A Better World," "Starcrossed," "Shadow of the Hawk"/"Ancient History," "Fearful Symmetry," and "The Terror Beyond" which may qualify as spoilers.)

For all the careful study she has made of this world, Shayera thinks she could spend multiple lifetimes trying – and failing – to understand its people. Had she and the other Justice Lords lost Thanagar as they have lost Earth, the consequences would have been swift and decisive. There would have been no imprisonment. And even had some benighted souls raised the possibility of a trial without losing their own heads over the suggestion, there would have been far less talk of due process and more debate over combat methods.

Or perhaps it is simply Batman who defies understanding. From the little news that reaches them in their cells, she gathers that until such time as an impartial jury can be found, he has set himself a life sentence of making the public take responsibility for themselves again without falling into the temptation of mob rule.

An impossible task, Shayera judges. Years of effort in Gotham, and he could not save the city from anarchy by himself. He cannot hold a world together in the time that remains to him. 

And he cannot hold her. Luthor's technology was based on his knowledge of the Justice Lords' powers, but they only ever saw what Shayera allowed them to see. It may take both her hands to lift her mace, and its spark may be some time in returning, but whether she can fly makes no difference in her ability to wield it.

“See?” the guard taunts as she hefts it with an audible grunt. “I'm just as good with it now as you are.”

“No,” says Shayera, and connects with his jaw. She feels a brief flash of sympathy, but Thanagar would never have posted someone so easily goaded into competition with a high-level prisoner, either. And there is no time. She smashes through the bars, clears a path through the cameras and the strike team sent to meet her (leaving one conscious just long enough to tell his supervisors the threat has been neutralized), and runs.

“Shayera!”

She is not as afraid the guards on the outer wall will notice as that their intervention will be unnecessary. Nonetheless, she does not even try to fight the pull that halts her in mid-step and sets her on the path back to his cell. “John.”

Without the glow of the ring, his eyes seem oddly flat, though far from empty. To avoid meeting them for too long, Shayera presses her lips against his as close as the bars will permit.

Only when he reaches for her hand does she pull back.

“I'm so sorry, love,” she says. “But it's better this way. You can't fight what's coming now, and you won't like it.”

Willing herself not to hear whether his cries are made in anger or anguish, she strides on toward the main door. Its rippling steel surface looms before her, reflecting her hair and orange prison uniform back to her in a blur that shatters into a thousand tiny flames as she swings her mace...

~

The fight against the Gordanians is not going well. In fact, “not going well” may be an understatement along the lines of saying the Flash has an active metabolism. Or would have been, once. Shayera may be the only sentient left in the universe for whom the comparison springs to mind. She is quite sure she is the only one still capable of finding anything resembling humor in it.

Calling the hyperspace bypass a tactical miscalculation would be another understatement of galactic proportions, albeit far less amusing. Not only has it failed to halt the Gordanian advance or dent their homeworld's defenses, what had previously been a two-sided contest has expanded to include a host of other players now eager to see Thanagar removed from the game. 

The Guardians of Oa look the other way as Kilowog, Katma Tui, and Kyle Rayner, last son of Earth, honor their comrade's memory with a ferocious devotion that forces her to blink back tears every time Hro launches into a rant against their attacks. New Genesis, too, remains silent as Apokolips sends forth its parademons in fury at having been cheated out of its vengeance against Superman. And while the Vogons cannot exactly be labeled a military threat, even when denouncing what they consider the theft of a valuable trade route in rhyming couplets, their embargoes are creating severe difficulties at a time when Thanagar can ill afford disrupted supply lines.

Yet none of these are as grave or immediate an aggravation as the one she now goes to confront. “Hro!”

Long ago and far away, she remembers a time when the sound of her voice could accomplish miracles and coax a smile out of the redoubtable Hro Talak. Now, he turns inward, burying his attention in his work as she approaches. “This isn't a good time, Lieutenant.”

“It's never a good time.” Lesser officers disperse in her wake, apparently deciding discretion is the better part of valor. “I want a field assignment.”

Hro sighs, still fixated on troop movements as they advance across his display screen. “How many times must we have this conversation?”

“As many times as it takes for you to recognize you're wasting a valuable asset.” She reaches over and switches off the display, driving him to his feet. “My cover may be blown, but I can still anticipate our enemies' movements. Send me out, and I can--”

“What?” he snaps. “Disrupt a few guerilla strikes? Quell an insurrection on a planet that already hates us? Do you really think that will turn the tide of the war?”

Her face draws closer to his than she has wanted to be in months. “Watch me.”

He blinks first, drawing back with a snort. “Your dedication is noted. But the situation has grown more complicated than you can grasp.”

“Oh, believe me, I grasp it just as well as you. Better, even, since I have nothing to do all day but sit in on briefings. I have to--” She only narrowly avoids finishing the sentence with _know it wasn't for nothing._ “I need to do _something._ Anything. Watching from this forsaken outpost as we teeter on the brink of defeat is killing me!”

His fists clench, but he does not deny her assessment of the situation. “The things that will kill you are all out there, Shayera. Is that what you want? To be another name on the list of casualties?”

“Then I will be in good company. At last.” This time, she cannot keep the addendum from slipping past her lips. Nor, once she has brought it into the world, can she bring herself to regret it.

Hro's mouth curls in a snarl. “If this is about the Lantern...”

“It's not,” she says, and means it, somewhat to her surprise. “But it's always about _you_ , isn't it, Hro? If I wanted to be someone's pretty bauble, I could have had my pick of men. I wanted a partner.”

“You wanted a soldier. In wartime, soldiers must obey their commanding officers. And I command here.”

It is an insightful counterargument, for Hro. And in the set of his jaw, the slight stoop of his shoulders under the burden he feels even at this moment, she can almost see the man she fell in love with. But she has had other commanders since, and other loves. She is no longer the girl as blinded by patriotism as by her own power to render a distinguished hero tounge-tied in her presence. “Now who's trying to win the war single-handed?”

“Enough.” For the first time, he raises his voice. “Guards!”

“Is criticism treason now?” she demands, before realizing the question answers itself. That is an Earth thought, not a Thanagarian one.

“I would be well within my rights,” he says, after a contemplative pause that lasts far too long for her comfort. “But I do this for your good, and the memory of what we were to each other.” He turns to the newly arrived soldiers. “ _Civilian_ Hol is not well. Confine her to quarters until further notice.”

Treason it is, then. She cannot save an empire that would produce a man like Hro and follow him down his inflexible path to destruction. Perhaps she can still save what remains of its honor – and her soul.

Before the nearest soldier can seize her arm, she swings her mace and sends him flying against his own reflection on the dead display. Its shards scatter around her like stars...

~

“Chay-Ara,” Katar groans against her ear. An unexpected breeze stirs the Egyptian night, sending shivers up her bare skin. She twists as best she can to find its source.

“Leave us,” she commands the startled attendants. One drops his palm frond and obeys. The other continues waving erratically as he looks to Katar for guidance.

Katar dismisses him with a gesture, then turns to her in puzzlement. “You're not usually so reticent.”

“No,” she acknowledges, trying to clear her own confusion with what she hopes is a beguiling smile. “You and I are king and queen from sunrise to moonfall. May I not cherish the few moments we have to be husband and wife?”

From the passionate kiss she receives in response, she deems the distraction an unqualified success. “Sunrise or moonfall, your wisdom knows no end, my queen.” Katar pushes her deeper into the pillows. “Nor does your beauty.”

“Flatterer.” She entwines her arms around his back, pressing against him to shield herself from the lingering sensation of unease, even as her eyes continue to scan for trouble. 

Along the far wall, she finds it: a shadow passing in front of a mirror, too black and solid to emanate from the candles that surround them, its head denoted by a malevolent grin that defies anything natural. “We are not alone.”

“What?” Her husband's mind must still be preoccupied with other matters; he does not look, and eases off her only slightly in surprise at the interruption.

Fortunately, even that is enough. In one fluid motion, she reaches down to grab her mace from beside the bed and hurls it across the chamber. Darkness spreads as the mirror comes crashing down...

~

“Oh, Kendra.” Dr. Hamilton lowers his ophthalmoscope and peers at her directly, concern etched in every line of his expression. “What are we going to do about you?”

“That's not my name,” Shayera insists, over the frantic buzz in her head.

“Perhaps you'd better let me handle this, Doctor.” Amanda Waller's disembodied voice echoes from behind the two-way glass that comprises the far wall of the otherwise unadorned examination room. A few seconds later, the door clicks open, and the woman herself strides into the room, flanked by an orderly in white. No, not an orderly: a young, blonde woman in a very different sort of uniform, who takes in the scene with a smirking satisfaction that brings the buzzing to new levels of intensity.

“Kendra,” Waller repeats, with the force of an order. “Stop this. Come back to us.”

“I'm not--” The buzzing is now a siren, a scream.

“You are,” says Waller, “Kendra Saunders. Archaeologist. Treasure hunter. A seeker of wonders who wanted something more from her life. One of our consultants, your uncle, introduced us to you. When we explained the Icarus Initiative, you volunteered instantly.”

Shayera's shoulderblades twinge. “No.”

“Yes.” In contrast to Shayera's protests, which even she in her addled state can recognize as tinged with desperation, Waller's voice is untroubled, as though it does not matter when Shayera accepts the truth. They have done this before, and they will do this again, as many times as necessary. “We warned you there might be side effects. We warned you we couldn't be sure what they were. A pity this...delusion has turned out to be one of them.” Her eyes soften with a compassion that unnerves Shayera: she would not have believed the Wall capable of such an emotion, even feigned. “If you could only remember how you laughed when you took your first flight.”

The weight of her wings is suddenly too much. Hamilton reaches out a hand to steady her as she slumps. She _can_ remember. She knows she could. If only her head would stop aching...

And there is something else. Something connected with the girl in white, whose amusement threatens to break into overt mockery at any second.

Something that comes to her in a flash, borne on a wave of greater torment than any which have preceded it.

“If I'm only human,” she says slowly, straightening just enough to detatch herself from Hamilton's support and inclining her head in Galatea's direction as far as the pain will allow, “why is _she_ with you?”

Waller displays no anger or alarm at the question. She opens her mouth to deliver an explanation – standard procedure, or additional augmentations, or some other effortless riposte against Shayera's clumsy feint. But it is too late. Her colleagues have already betrayed her. Galatea's stance has shifted, and Hamilton, eyes fixed on her, has taken half a step back to allow her a clear path.

Shayera's agony has come through the other side of blinding, to provide her with an intense clarity. She sees the blur of white on her left, she hears Waller's shouts, but she does not care. All that matters is reaching the glass, as she raises her fist to fragment it into splinters...

~

_With strange aeons, even death may die._ Every Thanagarian learns the adage from infancy. They also learn it will never be true for them. Only Great Ichthultu is worthy of immortality.

Wind-mote knows the brief span of her days better than most. Though marked as a sacrifice from childhood, her parents, teachers, and even priests have not instilled her with particular reverence for the Old One who watches over them. Rather, she has been encouraged to take what joy she can from life, so that her soul will make a fit offering. The underlying prayer that Great Ichthultu will not demand further sustenance of them should she fail to please goes unspoken, yet she hears it nonetheless.

But there are no prayers left now, save one. The stars are aligned; the time is come. Great Ichthultu draws near. Wind-mote lies upon the altar as the priest binds her arms, awaiting Its approach.

On the priest's belt, she catches sight of a ceremonial mirror, rumored to serve as protection against the insanity of staring an Old One in the face. She, of course, will be granted no such shield.

A surge of anger fills her, frightening in its power and object, and yet somehow more _right_ than anything she has ever felt before this moment. All her life, she has been taught that her people are warriors; that submission, even in the face of overwhelming odds, is the greatest dishonor. Why do they bend their knee before _this_ conqueror?

If she must die today, she will die not as Wind-mote, but Shayera Hol. And Great Ichthultu will choke on her spirit before consuming her. 

With her free hand, she yanks the priest's dagger from its scabbard, severing his belt in the process. The mirror goes flying...

~

“You okay?”

A moment passes before she recognizes the red blur above her as Flash, extending a hand to help her to her feet. “I warned you not to underestimate Mirror Master.”

“You did,” she says faintly, the memory returning with the words. _“A hall of mirrors hideout? C'mon. It'll be fun,”_ she'd scoffed. “How long was I gone?”

His frown deepens. “Gone? All he did was knock you for a loop when he zapped you with that doohickey of his...maybe ten seconds ago?” Flash indicates a tiny pile of dust by Mirror Master's bound feet, along with the sullen villain himself. “More than enough time for me to finish up, but...”

Shayera shakes her head. “Sorry. I must still be disoriented.”

“Well, we'll have you back on the Watchtower for a full examination soon.” Flash pats her shoulder soothingly. “I just have one favor to ask, if you're up for it.” With his free hand, he gestures broadly at the mirrors encircling them. “Clear us an exit? I'd do it myself, but I'd rather not risk the cuts.”

She follows her reflections along the path of his arm, searching them anxiously for outward signs of the chill growing within her. Home or not, real or not, perfect or not, she _likes_ this world, this life, this self. The thought of never finding her way back to it sparks a terror more profound than any god could hope to achieve.

A soft noise penetrates the buzz in her head, along with a movement in the nearest mirror. Behind her, Mirror Master is snickering, his attitude relaxed despite the ropes, his expression triumphant. _I win,_ it says. 

Shayera's eyes narrow. “One exit, coming up.”

She raises her mace, takes aim, and punches through.


End file.
